


Stripped Bare

by chicago_ruth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:43:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicago_ruth/pseuds/chicago_ruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/17048.html?thread=15898008#t15898008">this prompt</a> on the kink meme. Arthur is molested during a council meeting. Public humiliation.</p><p><a href="http://sophinisba.dreamwidth.org/314188.html">You can also listen to the podfic</a>, read by Sophinisba.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stripped Bare

Arthur jolts awake.

“Do pay attention, Arthur,” Uther chastises, to which Arthur nods sheepishly. He hardly even remembers sitting down for the weekly council meetings; training must have taken a lot out of him. Yes, he thinks he can still feel the stiffness in his muscles.

Uther goes on to talk about grain, and taxes, and something else that is important but entirely boring. His mind drifts again, a kind of heaviness overtaking his senses. He tries to focus on one of the advisers, but his vision blurs before he can recognize him. The scroll in front of him is equally unclear, just parchment with a long, dark smudge going across it. Squinting at it makes his head ache. He reaches for the goblet of water in front of him, and while it quenches his thirst, it also makes his stomach roil.

“May-- May I be excused, sire?” he manages to ask. There's a sudden stillness in the room, not a single breath being drawn. Arthur turns to his father, the only face he sees with real clarity, only to realize that the king is looking at him with open disdain.

“I will not have you speaking out of turn, Arthur. Remember who you are addressing.”

The noblemen at the table start mumbling, and Arthur feels heat crawling up his face. Right, of course, the man sitting beside him is the _king_ , not Uther, and certainly not Arthur's father. He hasn't forgotten that distinction in years. He remembers being twelve and asking a question during a meeting, remembers the belt that came down on his backside afterward. That won't be happening this time – probably – but he curses himself regardless.

Arthur forces himself to listen to Uther's words. There's a problem with the cattle, wolves eating them or milk being scarce or something. It's when Uther goes on to talk of the bulls that he feels the first touch.

It's just a light graze, on the underside of his cock; Arthur snaps his legs together and tells himself his breeches are chafing him. Only the light touch turns firm, starts massaging in earnest, and between that and the headache Arthur can't keep the moan from escaping.

All heads turn to him. Uther raises a disapproving eyebrow. “Something you want to share with us, Arthur?”

“N-no, sire,” Arthur quickly responds. The ghosting touch stills; Arthur stifles a relieved sigh. His cock still aches hard, but without stimulation he might be able to calm himself.

The problem is, then, that the strange pressure hasn't disappeared completely. Instead, it has moved. It's running up and down his back, his thighs, pooling at the cleft of his arse and massaging his entrance. And this is worse somehow, because his entire body is trembling, when all he wants is to stay quiet and unnoticed.

“For goodness sake! Arthur, control yourself!” Uther shouts. Mortification settles into Arthur's stomach, joining the hot jolts of pressure. He wants to respond, tries to apologize, but all he can push out of his throat is a low groan. All around him, the advisers whisper and stare.

“Stand up!”

Arthur hears the order, hopes the problem with his vision is expanding to his hearing. He didn't hear that right. Surely his father doesn't mean to –

“I said, stand up!” Uther orders again, slamming his hands down to the table with impatience. Arthur gulps and nods, afraid to disobey, unable to form coherent words.

It takes him three tries to stand: twice his knees buckle, and only on the third try is the invisible hand torturing him well and truly gone. He almost keens at the sudden loss of pressure.

Worse though, is that he is now standing in front of the king and his advisers with a straining erection. He tries to tell himself that it's not his fault, he didn't mean for it to happen like this, and yet all he can feel are the hard glares of everybody in the room. The whispers grow louder, driving into his ears and burying between his headache.

“And here you see before you, Arthur, Crown Prince of Camelot, apparently too occupied with trying to stain his britches to pay attention to matters of the court,” Uther announces. Somebody at the table laughs; Arthur wants to bury his face in his hands. Deep shame slides down Arthur's throat. This has happened to him before, he thinks, when he was just thirteen and he had received his first kiss. But he's not thirteen anymore, he's had plenty of kisses and plenty of tumbles and there's nothing to be ashamed of, nothing at all, not even his father giving him his most disapproving stare, and – and Arthur wants to crawl under his bed, stay there for the next year, until nobody remembers his face anymore.

Uther waves a hand; a servant steps close. It's Merlin, Arthur realizes with a start. Merlin has been standing there the whole time, and that makes everything even worse.

“Pull down the prince's britches,” Uther orders.

That won't work, Arthur thinks, because Merlin is loyal to Arthur, would never do anything to betray him, only-- only Uther is the king, and Merlin has to, or fear retribution. Arthur takes a few stumbling steps away from Merlin, tries to push him away, but his muscles are weak and aching and the headache won't let his body coordinate. Merlin snorts at the feeble attempts to escape.

It's with a cold, clinical detachment that Merlin does as Uther ordered. There's no clumsiness, no few brief moments of respite while Merlin fumbles with laces or fabric. Arthur laughs bitterly, almost asks why Merlin can't be this efficient on any other occasion.

And so he stands, bared for all to see. He hears somebody mumble about the size of him; somebody else tsks disapprovingly. He tries to will his erection down, thinks of how utterly embarrassing it would be to lose control now – but _oh_ , that just seems to make the problem even worse. Precome pools at the tip of his cock. Arthur feels the beginnings of tears. He presses the palm of his hands into his eyes, because Pendragons don't cry, not ever. Certainly not in front of their fathers. Not because of something so trivial as this.

“Anything else, sire?” Merlin inquires. _Go away,_ Arthur thinks, while Uther responds with, “Yes. Bend the prince over the table.”

There are more chuckles about this, with some knowing nods. Arthur lets Merlin guide him down. The wood is hard against his chest, and he decides to concentrate on that sensation. The grain scratches his cheek slightly, might even give him a splinter if he isn't careful, but at least it distracts him from his ass being bared to the world. Merlin nudges at his legs, forcing Arthur to spread them further.

“Now, please, just bring him off so we can continue this meeting _like adults_ ,” Uther commands. Arthur closes his eyes so he doesn't need to see the utter delight in all the blurry faces. It's a mistake – with his eyes closed, he notices the faint trickle of oil on his back side so much more. It's already slightly warm, though it warms considerably more as Merlin strokes against his entrance. Arthur forces himself to relax – pain would make the entire process take just the slightest bit longer.

The first finger slides in easily enough. He barely has time to get used to the sensation before the second finger joins. Within seconds the fingers are brushing against that spot inside him, sharp bursts of pleasure shooting up his spine.

Arthur's hands clench, gripping for leverage on the table. He succeeds only in catching a nail against the wood, though he barely feels it. He's too focused on the fingers inside, shoving in and out in a steady rhythm. Arthur twists his head to look at Merlin; his servant looks downright bored with the task.

“Look at him enjoying it. He's like a wild animal. Rutting against the table.”

Oh god, Uther is right, Arthur barely has control of his hips. He wants to just come already, get the whole humiliating experience over and done with, but trying to move his hand down to his cock is a mistake: Merlin uses his free hand to slam Arthur's wrist against the table. Now all that's left is to writhe ineffectually, to try to get more out of those fingers, to sob as his dick touches nothing but air.

“You know what we do with unruly stallions at my estate?” one of the advisers says. Arthur can feel the answer before the man says it, is already crying, _no, no, no_. “We geld them.”

Merlin's fingers stop now, either a blessing or a curse, Arthur can't decide. Finally, some show of loyalty, although the thought slips away when Merlin moves his fingers to grip Arthur's balls firmly. “Would be a shame to cut these off. He's good stock, the prince.” Merlin nods at the king, who takes on a pensive expression.

“Yes, I expect him to sire a few good heirs. Although removing distractions could help him rule. We can leave the question of heirs to Morgana.”

Merlin grips Arthur's hair and forces him upright, though his legs start buckling. Merlin steadies him, one arm around Arthur's shoulders and the other settling at his cock. Arthur is panting, drool dripping down his chin and tears making tracks across his cheeks. Why won't they shut up, why won't they leave him alone, why won't they let him _come_?

“That's a bit hasty, isn't it?” Merlin says to the king. “Just look at how responsive he can be,” and of course Merlin accentuates that running a finger along the underside of Arthur's cock, eliciting a moan from the prince. “Surely that's worth something?”

Uther frowns. “I suppose we might be able to sell him like that. As long as he performs well.”

There, just a hint of a smile at the corner of Merlin's lips. Arthur mutters, “please,” in his hoarse, broken voice, which seems to be enough. Merlin's hand is no longer teasing: the pressure is right, just enough, _too much_ , but oh it's glorious how it breaks down whatever was left of the barriers inside Arthur, lets the pleasure wash over him even as he's aware of the entire world staring at him. Nothing else matters anymore. He can tell there's a stupid smile on his face, mixing with the tears and spit and heat.

 

Merlin releases him; Arthur falls to his knees almost immediately. There's no hard stone under him, just a soft mattress and velvety sheets that smell comfortingly familiar. He closes his eyes, groans loudly.

A few moments later, gentle hands are pushing him down further, to lie on his back. A damp cloth runs over his body, his face, to wash away any hints of discomfort. “Are you-- ah, was that--”

Arthur cracks open an eye to look at Merlin. “You're getting more creative.”

Apparently done cleaning off Arthur, Merlin settles down next to him. He pulls a blanket over the both of them. “Good creative?”

He's too tired to really analyze the illusion Merlin created for them – for him – but he knows that Merlin worries about pushing too far. “It was amazing. Good, really. My father being there was--” oh god, it was mortifying, but that was exactly what Arthur wanted.

“He's probably rolling in his grave now,” Merlin mutters. Arthur would cuff him for that lack of respect towards the late king, if he had the strength to lift his limbs. He settles for shuffling slightly closer.

“C'mere.”

Merlin hums in question.

“I want to kiss you.”

“Oh, I can do that.” Merlin smiles as he props himself up onto his elbows. He leans in to press their lips together. He doesn't linger too long though, opting to kiss along Arthur's jaw, down his neck, onto his bare collar and shoulders. Arthur falls asleep like that, buffeted by kisses.


End file.
